That Which Cannot Be Seen
by cappie
Summary: During the Quidditch Final Harry goes blind in an attack. As his life continues through Hogwarts, tortured by his exhistance, he find his life slowly revolving around a mysterious person who he has never seen and is unsure exhists. Harry/Draco
1. chapter 1: above

The gray rain had stopped for a time on Privet Drive, yet the presence of another downpour lurked on the horizon as the great gray clouds swiftly flew over the landside. Although it was summer holiday, there was a slight chill in the air, as though spring had not quite finished. The meteorologist had been rather stumped by the sudden change in weather, but it was no matter, for as liked to say, 'No one could control the weather.'

Harry, who had just risen from his desk chair, peered out through his decrepit curtains which consisted of used and soiled dish towels. These eyesores he had discovered on his return and his uncle had explained angrily that their purpose was so 'the neighbors would not see anything unusual'. Beyond the dirty glass were the rusted over bars that a few summers ago Ron and the now long-gone car had managed to pull off. These too, upon his return, had greeted him. Sometimes Harry thought they were grinning at him as he diligently studied his summer homework. Those bars seemed to remind Harry day after day that the place he had grown up and lived in was more like a prison than a home. 

Blinking through the misty weather, he shook his head and turned to find Hedwig staring at him, her large marble eyes blinking once as she continued to study his behavior.

"Lovely weather, don't you agree?"

Whether or not she agreed was never discovered, for turning suddenly he found that the large and booming voice of Uncle Vernon crashed through his thin walls, "Who you talking to there, boy?"

"No one." Harry grumbled irritably, glad his door was shut and blockaded by his rickety chest of drawers.

"Get downstairs," the voice continued menacingly, "And set the table."

Shaking his head sadly, Harry glanced at the new birthday cards he had received that day. To him they glimmered like rubies among the trash.

"Coming," he sighed rubbing his hands through his unkempt hair. 

The door to Harry's room closed quietly as he exited it, and Hedwig closed her eyes, hoping to get a fifteen-minute nap. The chamber was quiet in the fading light of day, and a cloud swept before of the sun, casting the room into darkness and shadow. The window coverings fluttered and then remained still. Downstairs the bickering of the boys was heard, the chink of plates, the raised voice of Mr. Dursely…

…And yet, above their heads, Hedwig was not alone in the small spare room. A figure dressed in black appeared, from what seemed the general direction of the window, his head covered from all view. Only his long black hair that escapes the hood gleamed in the weak light. The figure moved quickly across the space, almost as though he was hovering just above the surface of the worn floorboards. The form paused and moved its head to look down at an old chest of drawers that had a few moments earlier of been placed in front of the door. From within the recesses of its cloak, the figure removed his pale and delicate hands, one of which gripped a dark wand. Pulling back the hood, the figure knelt over the drawers and slowly opened it, careful to muffle any sound possible.

It seemed to be searching for something for a time, and then, it paused and withdrew from the third drawer, a scarlet bundle. It was Harry's Quidditch cloak. Bringing it to his nose, the man smelt the fabric, and a sly grin spread across his features. Whispering something in a low and deep voice a shot of pale blue flew out his wand. The cloak glowed for a moment of bright gold and then faded away to its original color. Folding it neatly and placing it in its proper place in-between his dress cloak and black cloaks, he then closed the drawers and quietly exited the room. The window curtains fluttered, and then all was silent…

_That Which We Cannot See_

"This year has been a particularly exciting between these two rival houses!" the voice of Lee Jordan roared over the speaker at the Quidditch field. The crowd cheered the names of their favorite team, and the voice continued, "This year's final will be between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Both have played excellently this year against the other two houses and have both earned the right to compete for the cup!"

Professor McGonagall nodded in approval, pleased that she did not have to reprimand Jordan for his usually pro-Gryffindor words.

"Although, it is clear that Gryffindor deserves the cup." Jordan added quickly, and received a furious look from the professor sitting behind him.

"Really," she began heatedly, "I thought you would have grown out of it!"

"One never grows out of rooting for your own team." He explained, flashing a grin in her direction.

From down in the bleachers Hermione glanced at Ron who was hanging over the railing shouting obscene remarks to the rival house across the field. Shaking her head, she smiled sadly, and remarked, "Really Ron, you are too much."

The redhead looked at her, and smirked, "Me? Too much?"

Hermione, sitting back down onto the bleachers, placed her head in her hands, and thought quietly about the past year. Where had it gone so quickly, she quietly wondered. What had happened? For the past years she had become so accustomed to breaking the rules, finding enemies in their midst…and yet, this year, for perhaps the first time it was life at Hogwarts the way it was meant to be. Although the grounds had been heavily guarded there had not been one word of Voldemort, not one out lash at the muggles…no attempt to kill Harry…

And this in itself did not seem right. It was not; she argued with herself, that she wanted Harry to die. He was her best friend, along with Ron (who at the moment was turning out to be something more…) , but from the moment, she had been accepted to the school she knew that Harry's life would not be an easy one. With fame came great responsibility, and a responsibility that Harry had earned throughout the years…and that he continued to earn…

Yet, this year had been hell, Hermione thought darkly to herself. The classes had been grueling enough, yes, but then there was this constant pressure in the air, the waiting and the fear. Everyone was waiting for something that had not happened. Everyone had been called to arms for a threat that had not yet made itself known. It was Voldemort and his power that the people feared, but it was an attack that people had expected. Now…now there was only the wait that would drive people mad. 

What if it took years, she wondered. What if Harry had to live everyday with this fear and strain on his heart? What if…?

Blinking in surprise she found that Ron was leaning over her, looking at her with a worried _expression on his face.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" He questioned, feeling her brow for a fever.

Flushing in embarrassment, she explained hurriedly, "I-I'm fine Ron, I was just thinking."

Laughing, Ron joked, "Now what have I told you about that Hermione?"

"I know, I know." She admitted, standing up with him, and shrugging her shoulders, "It's just…"

"Believe me…we are all waiting." He whispered seriously, leaning over her. Her eyes wise (wide) in amazement she kicked herself mentally for believing Ron to be so dense. The whole experience it seemed had caused everyone to grow up too fast. "Don't trouble yourself by thinking about 'what ifs'. We know it will come, it's just a matter of time."

"A matter of time…" She repeated, feeling suddenly very cold.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the roar of the crowd as the two teams took off into the air to begin the game.

Glancing at his watch, Harry interrupted from within the office of Dumbledore, "Excuse me…headmaster."

Dumbledore, who had suddenly received an important letter via owl, glanced over his spectacles and questioned pleasantly, "Yes?"

"The time, sir." He tried modestly. The game would start in a few moments at the very most…all he needed was hassle from the team about his tardiness.

"The time?" Dumbledore questioned, confused for a moment. Then, the realization dawning upon him, he exclaimed, "Good lord, the time!"

Harry, smiling sadly, rose and shook the headmasters hand as he did each week with these meetings. The ancient man rose in turn, smiled wisely at Harry, and wished him the best of luck at the game. He explained that he would be at the field shortly, or at least as soon as he replied to the letter.

"Of course." Harry replied hurriedly.

"That means of course," the professor added as Harry quickly left the room, "That you may only catch the snitch when I am there to see it."

Nodding, Harry quickly exited the room and a moment later, his footsteps echoed down the long and deserted hall.

Adjusting his leather satchel (which at the moment contained his freshly cleaned Quidditch garb), Harry thought about what he and the headmaster had spoken of in the last hour. Ever since he had returned to Hogwarts in his fifth year, Dumbledore had insisted that they have weekly chats about the 'state of things' (as he liked to put it) dealing with Voldemort. For the past year, as far as the dark lord went, things had been quiet. Too quiet, Harry thought worriedly as he withdrew a piece of his arm guard. Harry was as stumped as Dumbledore about Voldemorts cause for silence in the past year and a half. He had risen to power again, regained his old followers (and was no doubt converting more each day) so then, why did he not attack Harry, or Hogworts, or Dumbledore, or anything?! His _expression grew even more hopeless as he turned into the great hall and broke out into a sprint.

As he watched the door to the outside grow nearer and nearer, he was so lost in his thoughts that he hardly heard the pair of footsteps following behind him. Glancing in surprise at the figure next to him (who was spiriting at his same speed) he grumbled, although very heavily out of breath, "Late, Malfoy?"

"Shut up, Potter. What will your team say when Mr. Perfect arrives tardy?"

"Up in the Astronomy Tower getting a quick shag?" Harry grinned as he flung open the door and raced down the gravel path.

"Oh, interested in my sex-life, eh Potter?" Draco chuckled absently as he caught sight of one of his team mates standing outside his locker-room door.

"In your dreams." Harry sneered angrily as he ran in the direction of the locker rooms and stumbled hurriedly into gear. Thankful that he had managed to make it on time, he pushed the brief conversation he had partaken in with Malfoy to the back of his mind, and stumbled to where his team mates were (gathered around the water fountain). Glad that Harry had not missed the game entirely, most forgave him at once.

Fred nudged Harry in the ribs before the game started, and whispered in his ear, "And where were you? The astronomy tower?"

"Please," gulped Harry, thinking of the earlier conversation, "Don't say that."

Fred and George laughed, and slapped him amiably on the back. Harry, gazing down at his feet, flushed in embarrassment. Running his hand through his hair, he cast a shadowy and bitter look in their direction that shut the twins up immediately.

Right now, there was nothing Harry wished for more than to be asleep in his four-poster bed. Even Quidditch did not seem tempting enough. He wanted to scream, and yell, and hit someone.  He wanted to kill Voldemort so his life could continue; he wanted to escape to a place that where nobody would know who he was. For a moment in time, he almost wished that he were still on Privet drive. His features formed into ones of repugnance, and he reasoned that he could and would never be that desperate. Compared to the hell there, what was a bit of waiting? Tapping his foot anxiously, he listened to the cheer from the bleachers above him. The doors opened, and Harry kicked up off his broom and sped off into the sunlight on his gleaming firebolt.

Settling himself down onto the bench, Dumbledore leaned over and asked Snape, "What did I miss?"

Snape, adjusting his frame, replied moodily, "Potter almost got the snitch."

"Well, I suppose that's good." Dumbledore nodded, forming a smile.

"But then Malfoy nearly knocked him off his broom." Snape added, forming an appreciative grin.

"Oh, I see." Dumbledore blinked, turning his attention to the field and adjusting his spectacles magically so they acted as binoculars.

McGonagall, on the other side of Dumbledore, touched his robed arm and whispered, "May I ask why you were late?"

Dumbledore replied whimsically, "Of course you may, dear Minerva."

Snape, leaning to listen to the conversation waited, as did Minerva, for the headmaster to speak.

"I received a letter, that's all." He answered amiably, adjusting his glasses so that he was not just looking into one large extremely big eye of the professor, "And I had to reply."

"What was the news of?" Snape questioned seriously, his insipid face seemingly gone paler in the sunlight.

"Ah…" Dumbledore fumbled, "Well…I would not concern you…but there have been rumors…"

Minerva, adjusting her hat that had been tilted by the wind, inquired, "Of…he who must not be named?"

Dumbledore nodded, and added, smiling, "Bien sur."

The crowd went wild as Gryffindor scored ten points. The score was now sixty -to- fifty, in the lions honor. His lips turned up in a pleased smile and adjusting his cloak about him, Dumbledore once again adjusted his glasses to 'binocular vision'.

From high above, the crowd the wind wiped about Harry's pale face. Although from the ground his presence looked calm and composed, his mind was alert and flighty like that of his haphazard movements about the field. His emerald eyes glinted behind the wall of his glasses, and he adjusted his broom to see as much was possible from his vantage point.

If he could just catch the snitch now…then all of this could be over, he would win the cup…

Yet, Harry realized, sighing deeply as he swept across the field on his firebolt, such things were easier said than done. Keeping a careful eye on Malfoy who was circling a few meters lower than him, Harry was reminded of the day in his second year. His first game against the new seeker—and the snitch had decided to show itself right by Malfoy's head. A grin tugged at his lips, and chuckling softly to himself, he studied Malfoy's face from his vantage point.  The usual frown was eminent, and his gray eyes swept the landscape in the same manner Harry had done not a few moments before. A few strands of his hair had come undone and now fluttered over his face and dark lashed eyes. Never had Harry seen Malfoy look so upset and so concentrated on his target before. In past games, Malfoy had taken time to cheer if his team scored a point, and at the very minimum, he had managed to deliver a few snide comments in passing.

Taking his opportunities, he searched the crowd and found that Hermione was talking to Ron in a worried sort of way. Obviously, Harry thought knowingly, they were talking about him. Although he feigned ignorance and innocence, most of the time he was aware of nearly all that went on at the school. After all, he had to know and be aware—for not a day went by that Harry did not ponder if it would be his last.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the cheer of the crowd as Gryffindor scored another ten points. The sun shone down, making his back hot; and so, directing the broom he leisurely flew around the court, his bright eyes alert for a flash of gold.

Unconsciously, his eyes were drawn back to the solitary and serious Draco Malfoy who had not moved in the past four minutes. Harry could not resist an opportunity such as this. Hovering a few meters away from him, Harry called, "What do you think of the game so far, eh, Malfoy?"

The blonde haired man turned towards him, his _expression angry but also uncaring. As though the words did not touch or anger him in the least. 

From a seat on the bleachers, directly behind Professor McGonagall, a young good-looking man sat blinking up into the air, his pale blue eyes focused on the two men who were now hovering some hundred feet above him. A slight quizzical smile arrived at his lips, and fingering his mahogany wand in his hand, he felt its mass and waited for the correct time.

This person realized that it must be a time when all (or at least most) were distracted from the golden boy. When Dumbledore's all-seeing eyes and all-saving wand would not able, or at least prepared, to come to the rescue. He knew he would have to make the jolt of power quick, sharp, and with enough impact to cause Mr. Potter to dive head first into the newly planted bushes that had been planted at strategic places about the campus. It was a stroke of luck, the person realized, that Mr. Potter was now hovering unconsciously over the thorny flora. Obviously, their sensitivity rivaled that of the womping willow, and it was known that the pain factor outdid the willow and its whip-like branches ten fold. These newly planted bushes were lethal, and unlike the willow, there was no 'turn off' button. Only fire, or perhaps flood, could stop the thorny branches. Dumbledore had unconsciously created the means for his success in adding new 'safety features' to the campus. It was marvelous.

The person also realized that he could not miss this opportunity so he had to hope something would present itself. Tapping his wand idly in his hand, he waited…

A few seconds later, Dumbledore suddenly had an urge for a lemon drop. Reaching within his cloak, he grasped the decorated tin case and brought them out into the sun. Suddenly, the crowd went wild as Slytherin scored ten points, and Snape, showing rare enthusiasm clapped happily, unconsciously causing Dumbledore to drop the tin case onto the footrest. Mumbling an 'excuse me' to Minerva, he bent down and searched the shadows for the tin.

The cold blue eyes flashed, and a cold sweat began on his brow. This was the time. It was the opportunity. Glimpsing hurriedly at Snape, who was still cheering, and then McGonagall who was trying to help Dumbledore find the lemon drop container, the man opened his mouth and ever so silently whispered the powerful spell. A surge of invisible energy emitted from his wand, carefully disguised so as not to distract attention. His cold blue eyes shifted to Harry Potter, innocently flying high above the crowds' head. 

Harry blinked down as he watched a player from Syltherin score ten points and the crowd erupt with shouts and screams of either hatred or joy. Frowning ever so slightly, he turned his attention towards Malfoy, waiting for his rival to gloat. Harry was not disappointed.

"I like the game very well, Potter." 

Turning his broom ever so slightly, Harry flushed hastily and glanced about for the snitch, hoping that somehow, magically if need be, it would suddenly appear. The roar from the crowd continued, but abruptly Harry's muscles grew tight and contracted. Draco, who was about to add another comment to the dwindling conversation turned his head and watched as Harry was blasted off his broom, as though from a spell. He watched as his glasses fell through the air, glinting in the light; the look of pain and anguish which appeared on his pale face. The crowd had (not) yet to notice. The scarlet robes wiped about his form and he plummeted head first through the air.

Draco paused, and licked his lips slightly. For a moment, Draco thought madly, he believed that he would just let him plunge. It was probably some trick, some damn trick that the boy was always up to. His eyes narrowed as he watched Harry plummet through the air, but suddenly, without realizing why, he gripped his broom tightly and sped after the freefalling body. Draco realized desperately that although Potter's eyes were open, they were unseeing. The boy was unconscious.

Nevertheless, it was no use. He had waited too long. Pulling up sharply he heard the terrible sound of Harry's body falling into hybrid 'whip tongue' thorn bushes. Wincing at the sound, he jumped off his broom and cast a spell that caused a spit of fire to appear from his wand. The thorns receded ever so slightly, but a few second later they were already growing and thrashing about the unconscious form. Draco, falling to the ground pulled Harry's feet (the only thing he could grab if he did not want to be in as much pain as Harry was) from the already flailing and attacking thorns.

"My god…" he whispered, repressing an urge to throw up. 

The crowd now screamed and gasped, and Draco knew that within a matter of minutes the nurse, the teachers, the teammates would be here...all too look at Harry. Summoning a spell for water, Draco tried to wash off the blood as best he could, but it was no use, it had been Harry's curse that he had faced the thorns with his eyes open, the eyes that might now never see again. Streams of crimson blood poured from them, meeting a similar color of his robes. It was revolting the injuries, the thousands of little marks pouring small streams of blood, his torn and nearly shredded cloak, but most terrifying was the innocent look that Harry had, even though such a fate had befallen him. Looking away, Draco glanced up at his teammates who were speeding towards him, grins spread on their faces. Yet, Draco thought terribly, even he would have not wished such a fate to his enemy. Quickly, he whipped the moisture that had formed at his eyes, and backed away a few feet from the body. 

A few moments later, Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall rushed across the field, followed closely by Madame Pomprey. Stumbling backwards, Draco gazed down at his blood stained hands, his eyes wide and uncertain. This was not going to be the last time that such color would stain his skin; his fate had already been decided. His gray eyes cast one last look at the crumpled and bleeding figure before slowly walking away from the scene. The screams continued, and Draco slowly drowned in them.   
  



	2. chapter 2: within

AN: I originally had a much better beta-read copy of this on my other computer, but unfortunetly, it crashed and the hard drive is having to be replaced. So, what I once had was lost, and I am only thankful I updated this to my webpage. In the mean time, enjoy the very overdue chapter two to: That Which Cannot be Seen

That Which Cannot Be Seen

Chapter 2

The figure in ebony sat quietly down in a particularly large and overstuffed chair near the dancing inferno of the fire.  Despite the warmth that the flames gave off, the room was cooled from the open windows just above the four poster bed. The figure moved his hand, covered in a dark green glove trimmed with fine lace, to reach for a goblet of dark red wine with flashes of gold like lightening.  Taking it to his lips, pale and slightly parted, the mixture stained them temporarily before he wiped it away with an angry scowl.

Another figure sat quietly on the large four poster bed, not moving, not reaching for a glass of wine, sitting and gazing intently at his companion in the room.

The first of the two figures moved his lips, and spoke in a harsh and hushed voice, "This is just what we have been waiting for, Draco."

"Yes, father." The figure on the bed replied, his voice emotionless.

"This is our long missed opportunity, don't you see?" the deep, harsh voice continued.

Draco, the form seated on the bed, said nothing, but instead let his father continue.

"It was unexpected that such a tragedy should happen to Mr. Potter, and now, and rightly so, Dumbledoor feels that Voldemort will make an attack.  _The great attack."  The last words were spoken in a hushed whisper as though even uttering them would fire the first unforgivable spells.  Mr.Lucius Malfoy's eyes were large and dilated, as though the wine was a drug, bringing him slowly to edge._

"What must I do?" Draco whispered, not meeting his fathers glare. Instead his eyes fell to the fire, dancing and swimming about one face, one face that now lay quietly in the hospital ward.

"What you were supposed to do years ago!" Mr.Malfoy snapped, suddenly pulled out of his train of thought, "Befriend the boy, and bring him slowly over to the _rightful_ side. With his power…" he left the sentence unfinished, yet his eyes blazed with the dark hope.

"I…" Draco began tentatively, his eyes studying his hands which now lay serenely in his lap, "Do you believe this is possible, father?"

Mr.Malfoy stood up quite suddenly, his dark velvet cape swishing cleanly to the ground, his emerald broach glinting in the firelight, "Anything is possible, Draco. Now you will make friends with Mr. Potter, do you understand?"

Gazing up at the man who seemed so foreign to him, he nodded and replied in a firm voice, "Yes, father."

```````````````````````````````````

Glancing around the corner, Hermione whispered, "Is it all clear, Ron?"

Flattening himself against the wall, Ron whispered, "Nearly. Peeves is going down the hall. Be quiet, or he'll see us."

Hermione nodded and smiled warmly. It was just like the old days, those first few years at Hogwarts.  Those times when adventure was around the corner and some new threat invading their potentially peaceful life.  Yet, Harry always had to get his nose into things; and god forbid, she enjoyed it as well.  However, these last two years has been strangely…deflated? As though a switch had suddenly been turned off, and announced, "That's it for adventures. Why not go read a good book?"

And until now, Hermione had complied.  Yet, this evening, tonight, had a whiff of the mysterious about it, as though she was revisiting those distant days.

"Alright, let's go." Ron whispered, tugging gently on her cloak.

Nodding in return, Hermione could not help but notice that Ron flashed a cheeky grin—perhaps both were going to get drunk on the nights events.

Stepping down the hall lit with golden firelight, Ron talked quietly to Hermione, in his gentle and relaxed way.  Although they always were talking to their fellow classmates, the three-some held a bond that had begun back in the first year.  They could speak in earnest, reveal their true emotions and bring up their suspicions: which was precisely what Ron was doing at the moment.

"I can't believe it…" Ron whispered dully, "How the hell did this happen? I swear, I could not concentrate through my studies at all today.  I just kept seeing him fall through the air…repeatedly. It was terrible."

Breathing a pent up sigh, Hermione touched his arm gingerly and whispered, "I know what you mean…how could this have happened? To Harry? I mean, we always knew he was in danger…but…"

"We didn't actually expect it to happen. Especially at Hogwarts." Ron finished for her, rubbing the back of his head in apprehension. "It's just not right…"

Hermione, her eyes misty with anger and remorse, scowled slightly to herself, "But Ron, was it just me, or did Harry look like he was shocked somehow, and then… he just fell?"

Ron, stopping in the middle of the hallway, his brown eyes wide, contemplated the incident, "What are you saying Hermione?  It was some sort of dark magic?"

The flames flickered in the hallway, casting shadows against Hermione's pretty face.  "It has to be the Dark Arts.  What else could it have been?"

Ron, stepping forward, extending his hands, whispered, "And so, what do you think? You think it was Malfoy?"

Shaking her head, and running her fingers about a strand of hair that had managed to escape, she conceded, "No." Closing her eyes, as though she was playing the scene over in her mind, she whispered, "Malfoy or his father isn't foolish enough to risk that.  In society they are still have power—despite their underlying alliance to You-know-who…no…it must have been someone else."

Ron, rubbing his temples generously, frowned and looked down at his shoes.  "There isn't a bloody thing we can do right now." Ron sighed bitterly, "We'll just go have to visit Harry and cheer him up.  He probably is going through a fuckin' hellish night…"

Shivering by a cool breeze from an open window, Hermione stepped forward, followed by Ron.  Their shadows stretched out against the dark cobblestones of the hallways; their light steps echoing only slightly.

"Yes, it must be hard on him.  Quidditch and Magic is what defines Harry as a person.  Without his sight, he must be going through quite an emotional battle."

`````````````````````````

Lurking in the shadows behind a tarnished suit of armor, Draco did not move until he could no longer hear Ron and Hermione's footsteps.  As he waited there, cloaked in darkness, he idly ran his hands through his loose hair.  Even with his eyes open, he could see Harry's eyes meeting his own for that eternal moment; afraid and scared and pleading…and then, they had lost all their glimmer, and he became an object falling from the sky—and Draco could do nothing.  As the unconscious boy had fallen, his arms had stretched out, as though he was reaching for him.   He had been too late.  

But, what was he supposed to care?

Of course, his house had been so cheerful by the news.  This was what most of them had been waiting for six or so years; and now, they had finally had the chance to see Harry Potter truly suffer…Draco realized that he should have been more excited about the whole thing as well; he could tease Harry for the rest of the school year about this single incident, cause numerous fights between the two houses, and perhaps, if he was lucky—a midnight duel.

Grasping the stone wall for support, he doubled over and took a deep breath.  A thought had stuck him quite suddenly, like a bolt of lightening—it tingled and burned throughout his body.

Why was it that he always wanted Potter's attention?  Why did it bring him such joy to know that Potter was angry at him?  A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and sliding to the floor, he buried his head in his arms, and closed his eyes.  

Throughout all his years here at Hogwarts, what were the memories he could recall the best?  There had been so many adventures with his fellow classmates—yet every experience, nearly all that came clearly to his mind; they always had Potter in it, in some way, shape or form.  There had been the first time they had met; when he did not take his hand.  Their midnight duel…or rather, lack there of one.  There had been that bloody romp in the forbidden forest and god knows what was in there…

"What the hell am I thinking?" he whispered heavily closing his eyes, "He is the enemy."

And so he was.  Standing up, rather slowly, and dusting himself off, he stalked down the hall in the same direction as those who had earlier passed.

``````````````

Lying in the bed the figure drenched in moonlight stirred ever so slightly as he pulled himself from a dark and murky state of unconsciousness.  His hand twitched as through realizing he could move; he opened and closed his fingers in an experimental fashion.  A small groan escapes his parted lips, and putting his hand to his head, he felt the familiar gauze about his eyes.  A deep scowl formed on his once placid face, but quickly it diminished and all that was left was the hollow shell of what used to be so full of life.

As he lay there in the dark, the shadows that surrounded and grabbed at him un-mercilessly, he thought back to those seconds before he lost consciousness out on the Quidditch field.  Trivialities suddenly became quite clear and important in this hindsight, and his memory of that time was very acute and vivid.  Things he had not even noticed did not escape his grasp.  The radiant color of the blue sky with the stark outlines of the flyaway clouds—the contrast between the green field and that of the bleacher stands; the roar of the crowd, the dull hum of the breeze touching his ears.

Yet, Harry thought darkly to himself, the one thing that he wished to overlook most of all and forget seemed to slap him ironically in the face.  Of all the visions that he had of those few seconds before he plunged into the perpetual darkness which he had grown so accustomed to, it was the expression of horror and the fear in the eyes of his enemy that haunted him the most.  It disturbed him, this thought; that Draco Malfoy would even allow such an emotion to surface.  Horror and fear was not something Draco conceded to doing often, although there had been a few occasions.

Feeling about the table, more particularly on the top, his fingers wrapped about a glass of cool water.  Bringing the cup to his lips, he downed it sufficiently before placing it back on his bedside table.

Blinking several times to confirm whether or not his eyes had been open or shut, he closed them and slowly leaned back against the down pillow.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees slowly allowing him to sink gratefully into a semi-conscious state.  He did not want to be awake, alone, surrounded in a darkness that would not stop.  He did not want to be alone, an outcast from the world he had leaned to love so well. 

````````````````````````

Knocking gently on the door to the hospital ward, Madame Pompfrey appeared, in her usual array of clean white linen above a simple grey dress.  Today, however, she had added a broach about her neck, in the shape of a golden phoenix with glinting green eyes rising from the red and black flames.

"Oh, it's you two."  She smiled warmly, admitting them into the warm recesses of the small chamber that led to the greater room, "I was expecting you sooner or later.  You three are so predictable."  She laughed nervously, adjusting her grey hair ever so slightly.

"Well, what do you expect?  We would just leave him here alone?" Ron asked testily, shuffling anxiously around.

Hermione, stepping forward, added sweetly, "He is just very concerned.  You will have to forgive his rudeness."

Madame Pompfrey nodded sadly and admitted, "It has got the entire community up in a stir. Everyone is afraid You-know-who is going to attack any day now, what, with Mr. Potter in the condition that he is."

Hermione, taking her cue, nodded solemnly, but Ron on the other hand just glanced about the room.

Madame Pomprey eyed Ron in amusement and irritation, before suggesting, "I know I am not supposed to do so, but neither Mr.Potter nor I have had a bite to eat since one.  So, if you don't mind, I shall go pick us up something and leave you three alone."

Hermione, flashing a charming smile, thanked her profusely, while Ron just eyed the beds in anxiety and frustration.

After the door had closed behind her, Ron, stepping quickly into the main room, sighed, "I thought she would never leave.  For Christ's sake, we're NOT supposed visit Harry? Is that what she is suggesting??"

"Well, it _is _after hours," Hermione tried valiantly to set things straight, although she did find the amount of concern Ron had for Harry rather adorable, "She is upset, as is the whole community.  She is probably in fear that every minute this school will be in some way, shape or form, destroyed."

Ron, snorting, said nothing and pulled up a chair next to Harry's bed.  Nudging him ever so slightly, he whispered, "Oi, Harry. You awake?"

The still figure stirred and mumbled something incoherent.

"Apparently he is now." Hermione sighed, a slight smile hinting on her lips.

The two starred as Harry slowly awoke from his slumber.  Sitting up vaguely, Harry whispered quietly, "Who's there?"

Ron, leaning close, answered, "It's us, Harry; Ron and Hermione."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry grinned slightly, "I was expecting the worst."

Hermione, taking his hand in hers, insisted, "Oh, don't think such thoughts Harry. You are perfectly safe here at Hogwarts.  There is nothing to fear."

Harry, smiled ever so faintly, but soon it faded and his face was once again melancholy.  Ron, noticing this, began to ramble in hopes that Harry would momentarily forget the great burden and fear that had been placed on his heart.

"Everyone was so worried, Harry." Ron began, settling himself down more comfortably in the chair, "Dumbledoor even talked about it during breakfast and dinner today."

Harry, flushing a deep red, grumbled, "And what did he say?  How _is _poor old Harry doing?"

"Harry." Hermione insisted bitterly, "It was not your fault at all. It was some other person, a dark wizard or witch, who did this to you, I'm certain."

Harry was quiet for a moment, but then, quite suddenly and quite unexpectedly, he laughed.  It was not an amused chuckle or a hysterical guffaw, no, it was dark and haunting and sinister. "Of course it was Hermione.  Who else could it have been?"

Ron, undisturbed by Harry's gruesome behavior, mumbled, "Well, I have my bet placed on Malfoy."

Harry, turning towards Ron, raised his eyebrows in amusement from under the gauze, "Draco Malfoy? Draco Malfoy would hardly be so stupid as to pull something off like this with such a risk factor.  His father would not do something so careless under some of the most important figures in the magical community!  No, Malfoy is definitely out of the picture!"

Harry continued laughing for a few second more, but then, as soon as it had begun, he grew quiet and subdue.

"Harry," Hermione breathed, edging forward, "What has gotten into you?"

Ron continued on with the concern, "Harry, there going to fix you, you know that right?  All they haft to do is wait for the potion to be brewed."

Harry, backing away from their presences, pressed himself into the pillow and dug his fingers into the soft feather down mattress, "And how long will that take, hm? A week? A month? Two months?"

"Well—," Ron began quietly, "We really don't know and—,"

Harry began to laugh again, "You don't know? I don't know! What the hell is wrong with everyone? While I wait to be fixed like some broken down machine, I will have to bear with the aftermath of anything that should happen while I am here drinking orange juice!  If anything happens, who will be blamed? I will, of course! And why? Because I wasn't there when everyone needed me!  Great fame comes with responsibility, it isn't all just having people stare and send you gifts and all that rubbish. They expect something for it, they expect me to do something."

Harry was breathing heavily now, his forehead glistening with the beginnings of moisture, his body heaving ever so slightly.

"Harry…" Hermione whispered, her voice unstable.  Harry could tell she was crying, but at the moment he didn't particularly care.  He wanted to be left alone; he wanted his life back—even with the responsibilities he bore then, they had never seemed as colossal as they did now.  There was never so much pressure when he wasn't the lame duck…

"I'm sorry," he breathed bitterly, "I'm sorry…."

"It's alright, Harry." Ron whispered quietly, "We know you will pull through all this."

Harry said nothing, but instead buried his head in his hands and steadied his breathing.

A few moments later, Madame Pompfrey returned, her tray full of soup and bread and orange juice.

In a flutter of white linen she insisted, "Alright you two, Mr. Potter needs some food.  So, out with you!"

She was cheery and had meant it in good humor, but suddenly the situation had turned dark and stormy.  She had yet to detect the drop in barometric pressure as wheeled a tray over to Harry's bedside and arranged his food on the tray.

"Would you like butter on your bread?" she asked kindly.

"Yes…thank you." Harry gasped terribly, his head now hung low as though he had claimed defeat to the steaming bowl of chicken-rice soup.

Madame Pompfrey fussed a bit longer, adding a straw to his cup, buttering his role, putting the spoon in the bowl.  After she did so, she turned around and heaved an exasperated sigh, "Now, Mr.Weasley and Ms. Granger, need I call in Professor Snape to return you to your houses?"

Ron, mumbling an apology grabbed a reluctant Hermione's arm and quietly and swiftly walked out of the room.

"Can't you see," he whispered when they were once again in the hallways, "This is a lot for him to handle.  He needs some time to think it over."

"Yes, but…" Hermione hesitated, glancing over her shoulder.

"Come on, we better go." Ron continued, once again taking her arm and leading her down the corridors.

````````````````````

Every evening at nine o'clock Madame Pompfrey would wish goodnight to each of her patients before dismissing herself to bed in her room some two doors down.  Although she could hear if a patient was screaming in pain or the like, it was nearly impossible to tell whether or not someone inside the room was awake.  She would never lock the great oak doors, for many times during the course of her experience at Hogwarts, there had been sudden midnight emergencies resulting in one less bed for the next few weeks.

On this night, Madame Pompfrey was ten minutes later than what was her normal schedule.  She had unexpectedly received a visitor from the headmaster who had come to inquire after Harry's condition.  Although he had visited in the morning, there had been no new information from the night before since Mr. Potter was still unconscious.

Dumbledoor and Madame Pompfrey had then gone on to discuss the state of affairs in the wizarding community and any possible threat from You-know-who.  Dumbledoor had stated that he was indeed baffled by the course of events—You-know-who knew by now that one of his main obstacles was currently unable to inflict damage upon him, so, why had he not attacked?

By the time the conversation had finished, Madame Pompfrey made it to her bedroom by 9:15 and was forced to put aside reading and instead she went straight to bed.  After all, the fuss made about Mr. Potter made her job very hectic and draining, and so, without even a cup of herbal tea, she tucked herself under the covers and was fast asleep in two minutes.

Meanwhile, in the dark and haunting recesses of the hall just outside the great polished doors, a figure moved and pulsated in the shadows of the night.

The outline of Draco Malfoy crept along the stone passageway and paused momentarily at the chamber of the Madame and put his ear flush to the grainy doorway.  Satisfied, he moved away and walked noiselessly to the entrance to the hospital ward.

Halting for a moment, Draco's silver eyes flashed suddenly in the moonlight.  An expression of distrust and annoyance swept across his features, followed by a deep scowl.

_Why am I here? He thought desperately, his eyes roaming the deserted hallway. The darkness itself seemed to answer his question for him.  It whispered it in his ears, slowly, steadily, like a drumbeat.  It was duty. It _is_ duty._

Or was it?

_It's not as though I care one way or another. Mr. Perfect Harry Potter will recover, he always does.  That weighted hand of fate favors the brave…and what else is there to him besides that? _

Draco, lacing his fingers about the old worn brass doorknob, stifled a sigh and slowly opened the entry.  Thankful that the hinges had been well oiled, he slipped inaudibly, like a falling feather, into the room.

_And there he sleeps…Draco thought condescendingly as he watched the moonlight fall against the boys features.  Stepping nearer to his reclined figure, unsure whether or not he was awake; he studied his enemy for a few fleeting seconds._

Although he saw Potter nearly every day, Draco realized how much he didn't _actually_ see him.  He looked and scowled and threw insults and tried to make his life impossible—but did he actually know his enemy?

Keep your friends close….and your enemies closer.

Leaning forward to inspect Harry's figure, he felt his warm hand brush against the cool metal of the bed frame.  He paused and looked down to where the bed and his hand had made contact.  As he stared at it, quite fixated to the spot, he heard Potter's breathing. It was quiet and steady—unlike Crabbe's undignified snorts and deep breathes, and Goyle's snoring—no, quite the opposite from those two brutes. 

As his gaze traveled up the length of his body, Draco could not help but smile as he noticed the disheveled state of hair. Yes, it was not unnatural in the least—but the careless look that Potter gave to his appearance…it was strange.  Draco knew that he took pride in his appearance. He made sure he was well dressed and immaculate for the day; and yet, if placed side by side with Potter onlookers would find their manifestation equal.  Like opposite sides of the coin, both were worthy… Yet, Draco was sure that Potter cared about the way he looked, but the way he dressed, acted and even slept…it seeped a relaxed and lighthearted attitude that Draco could only wish for.  

All his life, there had been one path, one direction, and one way of doing things.  Yes, creativity was highly valued, resourcefulness was even better—but such qualities could only go so far. If they stepped to close to the edge of the family's reason, well then, all that was left to do was to smash it out.  They then had to, as Draco thought, show him the light.  Didn't everything look better this way? Why, yes, of course it did.  This was what he said.

The wind outside howled at the window, as if the whole world was watching as Draco settled himself down at the rim of the bed and continued to study the figure dyed by the silver light.  The world knew, as Draco himself knew, that this was not right.  He and Potter had no business in the same bed, Potter was the daylight, the savior of the world—the sleeping world, and unaware of everything that went on.  They turned the other eye, they looked away—they didn't care, and why should they?  After all, weren't they much better off not knowing?  If they knew…then feelings would be hurt, even more lives lost…there would be jealousy.

Potter was the savior of ignorance.

If the Muggles knew about the wizards—if they knew, then the jealousy would drive them insane.  After all, who could not long for such a life as theirs?

And then…there was him, Draco Malfoy, the last of his kind—the carrier of tradition that the wizarding world had turned their back on.  And that was that. It was black and white to the populace—Harry was good, he was bad. It was simple, like two plus two: it would always equal four and there was no changing it.

As his eyes traveled down from Harry's hair, they fell on his uncovered eyes.  In his hand was gently clasped a piece of bandage that at one point must have been wrapped about his head. Obviously, Potter had not liked the feeling of being blind and reminded continually as the gauze irritated his skin.  His lips formed a smile, and gently removing the fabric from Potters hands, he slipped it inside his cloak.

Draco had yet to finish his inspection of Mr. Harry Potter, but he noticed that Potter had opened his eyes and was staring, however blindly to where he sat.  In taking his breath sharply, he remained still and waited.  

_Fuck. _

"Who," Potter began in a raspy voice, "Who's there?" 

Making not a sound, Draco was rather stunned as he gaped at the awakened figure in front of him.  Harry Potter asleep without his glasses was one thing, but actually not having them on, and being awake…it was very odd and curious at the same time. With his glasses on, it made Potter appear to be younger, sloppy, like a child with finger paints.  Although, sometimes, particularly in the library, it made him look studious and scholarly, most of the time it gave him a look of innocence; of child-like innocence.

Yet, now…now, for the first time, Draco realized that Potter was a man. Most of the time all he saw was that eleven year old boy who has whispered in his determined way, "I can decide for myself, thanks." Yet, Harry had grown, and emerged, and now, even with his unseeing eyes; the emerald's glinted, shone, and hypnotized him. There was intensity in his gaze, however unseeing… 

"Who the fuck is here?" Harry whispered crossly, reaching out in front of him, grasping desperately to Draco's school cloak.  Harry, as though frantic to unmask the stranger struggled forward, trying to discern, trying to discover…trying to reveal…

Anger seemed to have clouded his eyes, and he seized Draco roughly about the collar and pulled him forward, whispering in a dangerously low voice that Draco had heard on a few occasions when he had really pissed him off, "Tell me who you are. Now."

Draco, in a mixture of fear that he might be discovered and amusement that Harry seemed so upset, remained motionless and allowed him to try to the best of his abilities to discover through way of touch. Slightly relieved that his hair was not slicked back, Draco enjoyed the sensation of Harry's fingers running through the strands.  Nobody had done that in, oh, years…he had forgotten when, he had forgotten what it felt like…

Yes, certainly, people had run his hands through his hair—but never with such innocence, and such a light touch.  Most of the time it was sleek hands feeling whatever they could, desperate for more…

Closing his eyes, he smirked and whispered in a quiet and hushed voice, "It's no one, Harry."

Slipping from his grasp in a series of seconds, Draco smirked backed away quickly. Harry had already arisen out of his bed, yet he was tangled up in the bed sheets and nearly fell onto the hard floor. He could hear his now heavy breath, swearing bitterly. Casting one last glance over his shoulders, he sped into the shadows and slipped quietly through the doorway.  The sinister halls of Hogwarts seemed to twist and turn into a labyrinth of mysteries.  Quickening his steps as he heard Peeves mumble something from a nearby passage way, he sank thankfully into the Slytherin common room. Draco leaned against the common room fireplace breathing heavily, the hairs on the back of his neck still standing on end. That had been too close. Too close.  

Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the vanishing sensation that his scalp offered as his body began to forget the feeling of Harry Potter running his hands through his hair.

Banging his fist against the black marble highlighted in green and white, he swore profusely.  This did not bode well.

In the hospital ward, drenched in sweat and anger and fear, Harry swore silently to himself.


End file.
